


two of us

by blobfish_miffy



Series: requests! [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: ... sort of, And they like it, Author Is Sleep Deprived And Sick, Banter, Flirting, Friendship/Love, I hope, It's just cute, M/M, Male Friendship, Rowing, Secret Crush, Swearing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, also sort of, i think it does, it's sort of romantic, no kissing but an earlobe is being bit? does that count, sort of not, sort of??, they hang out in a boat, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 18:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: 41. "Well now I'm wet!"**John and Paul have a little adventure in a boat.





	two of us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alltidvinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alltidvinter/gifts).



_“Push!”_

“I’m pushing!”

“Then do it harder!”

“How the _fuck_ am I supposed to push harder when I’m already pushing as hard as I can?”

_“Fuckin’ try.”_

Paul looked up from his odd position and craned his neck to glare at his so-called best friend, who had deposited his lazy arse gracefully onto the rear seat the _moment_ they’d climbed into the little rowboat, and had _not_ moved since. Granted, he’d been rowing while Paul had been perched up front ( _“like a bird,”_ John’d sneered), but that was exactly the reason why they were in this sticky situation in the first place. John _“no I’m not wearin’ my fuckin’ glasses, Paul”_ Winston Lennon had, in his blind glory, smoothly allowed them to float into a particularly shallow area of the little lake. He’d just about parked the _fuckin’_ boat into wet sand. 

Like an _idiot._

As he was sitting up front, it was up to Paul to push them out. His hand was currently buried deep into the soft, wet dirt of the shore, arm almost outstretched as he attempted (and _miserably_ failed) to push the little rowboat back into deeper waters. After another three minutes of huffing and puffing from Paul and annoying, useless encouragement from John, Paul gave up.

“I can’t do it!” he sighed, and he slumped over the bow. His muddy fingers just barely brushed the lake water, and the contact made him shiver a bit. “It’s too hard.”

_“Fuck’s sake, Macca,”_ John produced a very John-like groan. A thump revealed to Paul that his friend had punched the side of the boat in frustration. “We can’t be stuck here _forever-”_

“It won’t be _that_ much of a problem, John,” he drawled, and he turned around until he was lying on his back, squinting at the sky. The sun was awfully enthusiastic that day, basking everything in a golden glow. It almost look _romantic –_ Paul snorted at the thought. “We’ll jus’ wait for that guy to come, say tha’ we got stuck and couldn’t get loose, and we’ll be fine.”

_“We’re already overtime,”_ John hissed, “because _you_ wanted to see the goddamn _ducks._ He’ll _kill us-”_

“We’re _always_ overtime!”

“-especially when he discovers we might’ve destroyed one of his boats!” John threw himself backwards dramatically and hit his head against the wood hard enough that one could hear another dull thud. Paul flinched, half expecting the boat the wiggle a little.

The boat did not move.

_“FUCK.”_ John yelled at the sky.

Paul sat up a little, supporting himself by leaning on his elbows. Curiosity was swimming through his stomach; it was _very_ unlike John to care what the authority thought of him(shop owners least of all), and the fact that he now _did_ care about the opinion of some old and annoying geezer with a crappy megaphone was rather odd. Paul closed one eye and peered at the older boy. “Why are you so upset ‘bout tha’?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “You hate rules. _I’m_ supposed to be the one to freak out about this, aren’t I?”

_“Well,_ you’re weird ‘n all,” John argued, voice sounding a bit strained. “I just don’t- I don’t wanna be, y’know-”

“No, I don’t,” he was even _more_ curious now(if that were possible) and fully pulled himself upright. The mud drying on his fingers started to itch. He scratched absentmindedly. “Do tell.”

John mumbled something.

_“I can’t hear you,”_ Paul singsonged, and he giggled gleefully at the sight of John’s gorgeous middle finger. After waiting for another couple of seconds, he leaned forward and gently pushed against John’s knee. “C’mon now, then, tell me!”

John sighed, deeply, _miserably_. Paul imagined he was channelling George; his other best mate was _brilliant_ at sounding like he was a suffering, dirt-poor peasant woman from the early 19th century, husband and five kids having perished from typhoid. He liked to say little Georgie had a gift. Georgie’s mam liked to say George was just good at complaining.

“No,” John then groaned with a scowl. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“John _please,_ come _on,_ tell me!”

_“No.”_

Paul threw his hands in the air with dramatic flourish. _“Jesus Christ!”_ he said, maybe a _bit_ too loud, “what do I have to do for you to tell me?”

It was silent for a little while, probably as John was thinking, before he looked up and locked eyes with Paul. He slowly got onto his knees and shuffled a bit closer, planting his hands on either side of Paul, encasing him; then, he leaned in close enough for their breaths to mingle and noses to brush. A dangerous smirk was playing around his lips and Paul would be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat at the sight. “Alright. I’ll tell you why,” John murmured, cocking his head a little and leaning in even closer, mouth ghosting over his cheekbone, “if…”

Paul’s heart was going haywire, pulse somewhere under his jaw, and he was clenching the seat so tightly he felt the splinters entering his palms. He swallowed and noticed his throat was dry. “If?”

_“If”_ John’s breath danced over the sensitive skin of his ear, his teeth caught Paul’s earlobe, and Paul _swore_ his heart stopped for a second, “you manage to push the boat away from the shore.”

And with that bombshell, he leaned back with a _shit-eating_ grin.

Paul blinked. His cheeks still felt _very much so aflame,_ and he slowly raised one hand to dust his hands over his _bitten earlobe_ in some sort of innocent wonder. It would be an understatement to say he was gobsmacked(if not slightly turned on), mouth slightly open in surprise and trousers _a little tight_. He quickly crossed his legs, cleared his throat, and racked his brain for a witty retort. “But John,” he managed to say softly, trying his utmost best at keeping the quiver out of his voice, _“you’re not Jesus.”_

John’s smug smile was wiped off his stupidly handsome face quicker than Paul could say _y’know._ “What?” he asked, rather dumbly. _God_ he looked cute like that, all confused. Like a _puppy._

Paul _liked_ puppies.

“You’re not Jesus,” Paul deadpanned then. His heart finally started to calm down a little, the feeling of triumph at silencing John Lennon _the Great and Powerful_ by being a smart arse replacing his agitation. “I asked Jesus what I should do. You answered. You’re not Jesus.”

They fell silent as they stared at each other. A duck quaked, somewhere.

John’s nostrils flared.

“Then I’m the _fuckin’_ Messiah-”

“But that’s Jesus…”

_“Just push the godforsaken boat away from the shore, McCartney!”_

“FINE.” Paul scowled and swiftly turned around. _God, John was difficult. “You don’t have to be such an arse ‘bout it,”_ he grumbled, as he climbed onto his feet and carefully jumped ashore. The disgusting water splashed against his leather brogues and he groaned internally, closing his eyes. _This better be worth it._

With a deep breath, having leaned forward until his fingers were wrapped securely around the bow of the boat, he pushed. And lo, the boat began to move; within seconds it was free from its sandy confines, already wiggling and floating in the shallow water. John cheered, Paul let out a breathy laugh, and suddenly he was knee-deep inside of the lake.

_“FUCK!”_ he screeched as soon as he felt the water seep through and completely soak his feet, and with an impressive feat of athleticism he jumped aboard in one go. Sand and water sadly splashed inside the boat as soon as he’d made his wiggly but well-executed landing, but he couldn’t bring himself to care: he was on dry land. Sort of. And best of all, only one string of stray algae hit a spluttering John in the face. “Holy shite, tha’ was cold-”

_“Thank you kindly for the gift, Macca,”_ John said nasally, interrupting Paul harshly while peeling the algae from his face with a disgusted grimace. “At least we’re afloat again.”

“Yeah,” Paul muttered. He stretched his legs, still shivering a bit from the cold, and observed the damage with a sinking feeling in his stomach. His shoes were _probably_ ruined(though he wasn’t sure, he’d never bathed them in a lake before), his socks felt disgusting, and his trousers would probably smell like fish as soon as they’d somewhat dried. **_“Well”_** he huffed, and he fingered his _soaked_ and sandy drainies with a pout, **“now I’m all wet.”**

“Hm.”

He wiggled the toes of his right foot. It made a soppy, gross sound inside the shoe, and he shuddered. _“Christ,”_ he said, directing his glare from his shoes to his best mate. “You better fuckin’ tell me why, now, Lennon.”

John had the fuckin’ _nerve_ to look oblivious as he fiddled with the oars. “Tell you what love?”

He pulled his mouth into a sneer. His fuckin’ _feet_ were _wet_ because of that arsewipe. “Don’t play _dumb,_ John. Ye _know_ what I’m talkin’ about.”

“I really don’t,” the boat was set in motion, slowly. John grinned at him as he rowed. “Tell me.”

“Why you don’t wanna be banned from this,” Paul waved his hands around, gesturing at the boat, the lake, and the place where they’d rented the godforsaken thing. “You said you’d tell me.”

“Ah ah,” John grunted, “that was Jesus-”

_“John.”_

John stopped rowing. His cheeks were a bit flushed. “You sure you wanna know?”

“Yes!” Paul almost-yelled. “That’s why I asked, ye daft _git-”_

“Alright, alright, no need to call names,” John muttered, tactfully ignoring Paul’s deathly glare. He pulled the oars in a bit, as to prevent them from falling into the water, and dug his nails into the callouses on his left hand. “I’s a bit embarrassin’, ‘s all.”

“Is it?” now Paul was _really_ intrigued, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His leather jacket effectively prevented the water from soaking into his sweater, and for that he was thankful; still, he’d much rather hear what exactly it was that got John embarrassed. John didn’t really _get_ embarrassed, only sometimes, and he always played it off as nothing, nor did he ever admit it. He was cool and aloof and rather intimidating. He didn’t do embarrassment and blushing.

_So why the fuck_ was _he blushing?_

John lifted his hand to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail anxiously. Paul ignored the urge to wrap his fingers around John’s wrist and pull his hand away, as John _hated it_ when Paul did that: he didn’t fancy getting thrown into the lake, _thank ye very much._ He was wet enough.

“I-” John started, before pausing and muttering something to himself. Paul leaned forward a bit more, straining his ears, but he didn’t catch anything except a very soft _“fuck”,_ which didn’t help him puzzle together what had gotten John so awfully embarrassed. Thankfully, his mate blurted it seconds after. “I don’t want to be banned because I don’t want this to _stop_ an’ all tha’,” he rushed out, now nervously scratching at his pointer finger.

Paul was silent.

“This way of hangin’ out, then.” His cheeks were still rather red. “’s jus’, it’s alone time, y’know. Just the two of us. No Cyn, no George, no band, no legal guardians. Us two, with nothin’ around. ‘cept,” he added, a bit panicky, and he gestured wildly at a duck swimming past them, “’cept the birds. The real ones, then, not girls. ‘course.”

“’course,” Paul echoed, heart picking up its pace for the second time in an hour because of John. He felt a grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Real ones.”

“Yeah,” he rubbed his neck sheepishly. “So. Tha’. I like that. It’s, it’s _gear,_ I don’t know- _can you stop smiling like that?”_

John turned his head at the sight of Paul’s grin, scowling, arms folded over his chest like an angry toddler. Paul giggled. He felt happy, really: John _enjoyed_ spending time with him, probably about as much as he enjoyed spending time with John, and it wasn’t _weird._ It was just _them,_ hangin’ out, just the two of them.

And it was _gear._

Maybe even worth getting wet for.

**Author's Note:**

> SO I got messaged by the lovely Alltidvinter a couple of hours ago regarding the sentence prompts I'd reblogged, and OF COURSE I couldn't resist? Thus this fic. I'm sure the other prompts will be written at some point. I have no life, so expect at least one more love. Ta.   
> Inspired by sentence prompt 41 by [hellsdemonictrinity](https://hellsdemonictrinity.tumblr.com/post/167780256210/angstfluff-prompt-list-5) on Tumblr! Also inspired by Paul's story on James Corden's carpool karaoke, that he apparently used to rent a rowboat with John when they were teens and just go rowing(and always take way too much time, so the guy who rented the boats out would be yelling at them through a megaphone), or something along those lines. Couldn't be arsed to look up what those boats looked like. Alas, I am not a person who needs to give a two-paragraph description of a boat(... am I? PFFFF I might be actually. Whatever).   
> ANYWAY Alltidvinter, my dear, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this!!(and if it was worth the break while studying, fdafdasf) 
> 
> Anyone who also wants to send me requests, you can do so on my [tumblr!](https://blobfishmiffy.tumblr.com/) Send me a message or an ask, and you might just see your request appear on ao3 :) 
> 
> ... when I've written it.
> 
> xxx Miffy


End file.
